


Cleanup

by JoAsakura



Series: Arma Dei, Amor Hominis [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Mecha, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 02:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I said to Jupiter_James, what if the Angels in SPN were sentient mech suits?</p>
<p>And then I had to write it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleanup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jupiter_james](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiter_james/gifts).



They’re pinned down by the creature with less than six bullets between them (the good kind - enchanted out the wazoo to guarantee sending a demon back to the psychodigital hell it came from in one shot - and an utter fucking waste on these nightmare tar-goo monstrosities) when Sam utters the words that make Dean finally lose it.

“Maybe we can kill it with Cas’s help?” Sam sounds a little desperate as he checks his loadout but that doesn’t stop the tirade.

“An’ this is why I hate goddamn Voltron.” Dean pops over the hood of the Impala and squeezes off another round, dead center, into what passes for the thing’s face. It only serves to split it in half with a thick, squelching sounds, and Dean watches in frustration as now there's two of the damn things. “Lions can’t do shit, always gotta form the giant robot!” He glances down long enough to look at the pinched expression on Sam’s face. “Do *not* give me that face, Mister "I liked the vehicle one better”!“

"I’m just saying, Dean, that if you can keep those things occupied maybe I can figure out what they are and we can kill them.” Sam snipes. 

“I’m sorry my memory is faulty. I can't calculate a course of action.” Castiel is suddenly next to Dean and the hunter stifles a scream while the creatures advance towards them with the easy pace of a predator who knows their prey has nowhere left to go.

“It ain’t your fault, Cas.” Dean lets out a sigh. He doesn’t pat Cas on the shoulder, even though the urge is there. The grim faced man in a grubby trench coat is just a projection anyways. “Ok, Sammy- figure it out. We’ll buy you the time. Do whatever you gotta do.”

~~

It was a year since Dean and Castiel had pried Sam from Lucifer’s hull and sent the angelic frame cursing into the Cage. Sam didn’t remember any of it, and Dean was sure he’d do anything to keep it that way.

The Men of Letters, the first ones, the ones scribbling shit down on crystal tablets in Atlantis and coding crossroads Daemons to affect esoteric probabilities, were the fuckers responsible for all of it. 

They hadn’t built the Enochian Frames - they’d only found them, languishing in a pocket dimension where God.. or what passed for it.. had garaged them. And then they’d started breeding their children to pilot them.

Until everything got sucked under the ocean where it belonged and the Eframes were forgotten again.

Until some of them got loose and decided to change things on their own.

And Cas had turned on them, saved Dean for whatever fault in its..his programming had led him to that day.

Helped him save Sam from permanent fusion from the worst and best of them all.

From the outside, it looked like a flash of light, just a moment, but merging with a frame meant stepping outside of time and space, where Cas parked his real body. There, tiny whisps of light (Dean had taken to calling them the machine elves. Cas just called them his maintenance system) stripped him down, clothes burning away as the great blue and white frame folded open for him.

But it wasn’t just clothes. Each time it felt like his skin was being sandblasted off, his pores filled with a million red-hot needles, every nerve ending frying as it linked up with Castiel’s. Vision doubling, shifting into ranges that no human brain had ever been meant to process and his lungs screaming as breathing fluid replaced oxygen.

But the dirty little secret, the worst of the worst, the one that Sam had muttered in his sleep unknowing in the first days after they’d released him from Lucifer - was this: that pain was accompanied by the purest rush of pleasure Dean had ever known. The Frames hooked into every part of the brain that made things feel good and turned the knob to 11.  
And even though it’s barely a heartbeat from when Dean vanishes in the real world, and is replaced by this hybrid of himself and Castiel, he’s already died and been reborn a hundred times in the merging.

~~

It’s all muscle memory at some point, the wings are a sword and shield alike and they know how to block and slice and dance with a grace no fifteen-foot tall mech should be able to manage.

And as the goo grabs their ankle and slams them repeatedly into a nearby cement truck, they know none of is going to do them any good.

“SAM A LITTLE HELP HERE.” It’s not Dean’s voice, or Cas’s grumpy monotone, but something else entirely as they cycle through Castiel’s available weapons loadout.  
Sam winces as he watches his brother take another hit and hisses into his phone. “Crowley, come on, man, you have to know something.”

The Daemon King is as greasy as a bag of old fries, but he’s been a semi-useful ally before. “Moose, knowing something and actually sharing it are two very different things. And the fact that you called me first means you don’t think your little Prophet friend knows either.”

“CROWLEY YOU EVIL LITTLE DOUCHEBAG WE’RE GETTING OUR ASS KICKED AND WE SWEAR WE ARE GONNA TELL THESE THINGS WHERE YOU LIVE” The Frame roars as it struggles with keeping about a billion teeth too many off their faceplate, drowning in a constrictor’s grip of tar.

Sam blinks at the phone as Crowley sighs dramatically and tells him.

“Cas! Crowley says you need borax!” He shouts after a moment. Salt they can do. Holy water? No problem. But borax is new, and it’s not like they have a box of 20-mule team sitting in Baby’s trunk.

But the Frame’s fabrication system, machine elves running overtime in their shared veins, knows what to do and somewhere inside, Dean grins. “It’s laundry day, bitches.”


End file.
